Sooo, Teen Wolf, huh?
by reflecting
Summary: So. Apparently there's someone (or something) writing books. About Przemyslaw, and his werewolf friend Scotty. And the broody Dee who keeps sticking his fangs into everyone and spreading werewolf like an STD. Awesome.


**Pairing: **Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale  
><strong>GenreTags: **AU - Canon Divergence, AU after season 1, CRACK

**Notes:** You know how in Supernatural, Chuck writes those books? Well, take that concept, and put it in Teen Wolf, my mind whispered one dark night. And, after Gods know how long, I finished this piece of...whatever it is. Uh. Yeah.

Please excuse the quality, and also any grammatical errors/typos, as English isn't my first language and this hasn't been beta read :P

Enjoy!

(P.S/ Stiles is 18 in this fic)

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><p><strong>o-oOo-o<strong>

**Sooo, _Teen Wolf,_ huh?**

**o-oOo-o**

**oOo**

The best comic store in all of Beacon Hills was located in a cellar and owned by an old couple who could never agree on whether Marvel or DC comics were the best. Mrs. Peterson was a firmly established Iron Man girl (woman, lady, whatever) while her husband was all Batman (Stiles leaned slightly more that way but he secretly relished joining Mrs. Peterson's gushing about Robert Downey Jr.). Stiles had been going to the shop since before he could remember, it having been introduced into his life by his mother, who'd always enjoyed reading comics to him rather than the regular children's books. That and obscure, as well as famous, Sci-Fi and fantasy novels.

He wasn't ashamed to admit his mother had been an avid Trekker and solid K/S shipper. He'd always taken her side on the matter whenever they'd watched the original series while his dad made pained faces and muttered about childhood heroes and rabid slashers. (It amused him to no end his dad knew what slashers were).

That, however, was beside the point. And the point, Stiles assumes, is something else entirely. He's not sure what it is, but he's sure it's something, because shit like this always happens when and where he least expects it.

Okay, maybe not entirely true, because most shit that's been going down these past two years have happened in less than safe and comfortable places. Like late at night, in the woods with dead bodies, the empty school, creepy hospital, burned down house, abandoned train stations, etc etc. Still not the point, but he can recite the facts. Like how this old comic store is his fail-safe supply of Awesome, his go-to place for Nerd Fixes, his Childhood stashed in shelves and boxes and glass cases. It's old and familiar and he knows it like the back of his hand, because it's tiny and he's spent almost as much time in there as he has at home, or at Scott's.

So he's not really prepared for shit to go down. Weird shit, of the creepy supernatural kind he'd been hoping to avoid this weekend. But yeah, nope. Not happening.

It started with the ominous, "Hi Stiles! We've got something new on werewolves in, getting quite big within its circles apparently. Wanna check it out?" from Mrs. Peterson. Or Pepper, as she likes to be called. He'd asked her, after Scott got turned, to keep an eye out for anything werewolf related back then. She'd taken it in stride because Stiles worked comic-, book-, movie- and game phases intensely and thoroughly. He'd kept at it though, because shit like that was fun to share with Scott and later Derek and his gang of misfits. Occasionally, it was even useful. But very rarely. Which is why he had not expected this shit. Not at all.

"Teen Wolf," he muttered, flipping through the books spread out before him. "Teen Wolf? Seriously? And oh my god they know my name!"

He's working up to a pretty impressive panic attack so he stops, focuses on breathing, and sits still for a long while, attempting to get a grip. Attempting.

So. Apparently there's someone (or something) writing books. About Przemyslaw, and his werewolf friend Scotty. And the broody Dee who keeps sticking his fangs into everyone and spreading werewolf like an STD.

Awesome.

**oOo**

Scott's first reaction to the book is to whine about how he isn't the main character (apparently, Stiles is, which would be awesome if there weren't so many intensely awkward and private things written down). Derek's is, not at all surprisingly, to track the ("little shit") author down and flash Alpha teeth and fangs in his or her face while making scary growly noises, before possibly ripping his or her throat out. With his teeth.

Stiles is not impressed and neither is Derek when Stiles whacks him on his nose with the rolled up paperback of "Teen Wolf Vol.1". The thing is quickly shredded and Stiles is reintroduced to the wall in Derek's living room (which is an actual room now, house renovated and yays all around). The rest of the pack whines because they wanted to read that and Stiles is forever grateful and all for Derek's plan ontotal destruction, but can't help but pout because he'd spent valuable time carefully blacking out every mention of his first name. Which, of course, means that Jackson buys up an entire supply of the fucking books and hands them out like candy. Not even Derek's growling makes him stop and Stiles just watches with a sort of helpless desperation as that particular train crashes. At least no one has a clue how to pronounce it, and Stiles sure as fuck isn't going to help them there.

It's Lydia who finds out who the author is – apparently a seer of some kind, named Lars Hansen (which just what) – but she's also the one who finds the fanfiction so Stiles is not at all impressed. Nope. Not at all.

Diles his ass ("Poor choice of words, Stiles").

Derek nearly implodes when Erica finds the "Big Dee" nickname, which is a temporary distraction ("How big IS the D? It's a relevant question the fans want to know, Derek", "I'll fucking murder you Stiles, don't you think I won't").

But still. He's a ship. He's part of a ship, he's got slashers. In the gay sex way, not the horror movie way. Though some of those…tags…worry him.

Then he realizes he's got actual fans, and hey, perhaps this isn't so bad after all! Even if they knock him up and kill him off, among other…things.

"You got him to strip for you?" Erica is entirely too gleeful. Boyd remains unimpressed.

"Dude, you're a horrible human being," Scott wrinkles his nose. "It so does not keep you up at night."

Isaac sniggers. "Weeell…."

Let him rephrase that: this is catastrophic. Wolfastrophic, whatever.

**oOo**

"Sooo," his dad begins, from behind his morning paper, the coward. Stiles chews menacingly on his mouthful of eggs. "Teen Wolf, huh? How about 'em Yankees?"

Stiles stabs a piece of turkey bacon with his fork. "You hate baseball. Also, one word: tofu."

The news paper crinkles. Possibly a page is torn.

"Oh look! The stocks are looking…good this, uh, week."

**oOo**

He finds, surprisingly, a fellow sufferer in Derek. It would be hilarious if it weren't equal parts terrifying as it is mortifying. So he might have read some of the more explicit fanfictions. There might have been knotting, and self-lubrication (and wouldn't that just be God's gift to the Gay Man?). It's a good thing he's in a habit of surfing incognito on chrome, or else his internet history would be pretty damning. But still. He could be spared the wolf's bane laced alcohol being poured down Derek's (very shapely, can throats be shapely?) throat.

"My dick's mine," he sulks. Stiles nods gravely, with all the sympathy he can muster. "Size doesn't matter, y'know! It's, it's important y'know how t'use it. S'all."

"I hear ya, sister," he pats Derek's (tremendously broad, muscled, leather-clad and mouthwatering) shoulders. Derek lists to the side, knocking into him with a mournful whine.

"It's a good dick, 'iles."

"I'm sure it is," Stiles manages to reply, sounding strangled and feeling his face explode in heat. He's probably a giant red light by now. He pats Derek weakly on the head, trying not to look down at his crotch. Because those jeans are tight. And Stiles know how to spot a good dick, he's a dick spotter, it's a legit hobby when you're bi-curious (well, bisexual, let's be honest) and share a locker room with teenage boys who like to show it off like they're on Broadway. But he digresses.

"D'you like my dick? I like it," Derek continues, slurred speak and all. He paws at Stiles' crotch and smiles, fondly. "I like yours too."

Stiles reaches for his phone.

"Scott. Help."

**oOo**

In the end, it's an act of self-defense. If his friends are going to read about Stiles' pining and totally cool, not at all creepy, crush on the Big D, then he might as well get it over with, right?

He just hadn't counted on Derek kissing him back, that's all.

"So you do like my dick?" Stiles blurts out while Derek's working on what will no doubt be an impressive hicky on his throat. His question doesn't make Derek stop, thank the stars, but he does move up to nip rather worryingly at Stiles' very fleshy, very human, ear.

"Do you know how to use it?" Derek asks instead, no doubt sporting a shit-eating grin by the sound of it. Stiles tugs at his hair, where he's got his hand buried in it at the nape of his neck.

"Stick it to me, Big D," he quips, giggling at the pained noise Derek makes in response.

"You are awful and I hate you." Derek kisses his cheek, nosing his way to his mouth and effectively swallows whatever Stiles might've tried to protest with a kiss.

Mm, yes, Stiles thinks, hate me some more, big guy.

**oOo**

Lars Hansen to his fans, John Anderson to his mum, stares at the open word document.

"I shouldn't have read those fics," he mutters, clicking up his browser and getting on google. "What's that even called?"

Gay sex research so wasn't on his list of priorities this morning. Oh, well. Gotta earn a living, and the fans want what they want. He should probably not let them influence his weird inspirational dreams, though. He's woken up with too many painful boners lately.

Maybe he just needs to get laid. Hm.

**oOo**

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><p><strong>End notes: <strong>LOL wtf did I write :,D


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